


Smoke Signals

by raptorclub



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Gen, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:56:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6686353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raptorclub/pseuds/raptorclub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick finds a bottle of narcotics, but isn't sure what route to take now that he has secured them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke Signals

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place after s2e3, "Ouroboros"

The circular pills filled his hand like pebbles. The type that were bright enough that one would consider placing on their tongue out of curiosity for the taste they carried, and how the small item would feel when safely comforted by the aching hunger of the tongue.

Dark eyes watched the white tablets as he cupped and un-cupped his hand. They contrasted against his tan skin, salt-stained lips making the slightest of movements as he counted each pill. There must’ve been a month’s worth, gliding over another as they were waves. They were waves. Waves that could make his brain tumble, and his nervous system grow numb while he enjoyed the side effects that pulled him further into a high. The same waves the pills created as they tumbled another, and the waves that carried Abigail along the California coast.

He parted his lips, licking the morning’s sea breeze from them as he brought his palm to his face. _I don’t… I don’t know_ , he thought to himself, bringing his hand so that it was leveled to his eyes. He picked a pill from the pile, bringing it closer to examine. Part of him wanted to take it, but it wasn’t as if he was escaping anything now. What was he trying to escape? The world was turning into everything that he saw when he was heavily using. The world was becoming the environment that he was in when he was under the influence. Hell, the world is that place. While everyone still tried to understand what was happening, he was here. Just here. Nothing seemed to phase him. The dead bodies. The blood. The infected that were constantly trying to attack them. All of this was his normal. Seeing a dead body, or blood, or someone trying to attack him was his normal. The way the world is becoming has always been the norm for him, just everyone was taking a bit longer to catch up to him. 

However, if that was the case, then why did he search for pills for himself before Ofelia? He took the list of things he needed, mouthed the three words he never realized he’d say to someone outside of his family, — “ _I got you_ ” —, found the rosary and had the decency to pocket it for her; and then find the antibiotics she needed. None of which he needed to do. After surviving for years on his own, feeding off the drugs that fueled his hunger. Everything came for him first, with the others as an afterthought. Now that he was here, in his room, with the small stream of light feeding in through the window and warming his hand, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. God, he searched so fucking long. He almost prayed for this moment to come. Nick never anticipated these feelings; he didn’t prepare for this. His life was always so routine: find drugs. Take drugs. Get high. Repeat. The only major change this new world gave him was the fact that he couldn’t afford all the time he needed to locate what he needed for his fix. 

But, it’d take an idiot to ask that question.

Even with his quelling hunger, he still needed it. The cravings were easier to resist when he wasn’t on land, knowing there wasn’t anything on the Abigail that could suppress his hunger — he had already searched an endless amount of times. It was different now, though. Now that he had the opportunity to rummage through what remained of Flight 462, he had returned with a treasure he could live with.

_How long would it be until I could get more?_ He thought, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His stomach began to churn in anticipation, yearning for his fingers to drop the pinched pill onto his tongue to suppress the growing hunger. He wasn’t an idiot. Nick knew if he were to take one, or all thirty, he would be in more pain than he was currently in, and he would be back to where he was earlier this month.

But God, did he want to swallow them all now.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and began to list the reasons why he wanted to take them.

_Reason one: because I can. Two: because I want to (followed by the second thought of ‘do I really want to?’). Three: I don’t have a three…_

Taking the bottle from the nightstand beside his bed, he decided to place each pill back in, counting them slowly. It was when he got to the tenth pill where he stopped. His hands began to tremble, and his eyes narrowed. The urge was starting to take over, and his eyes began to water out of frustration. He hated being alone with his demons and his thoughts. Being alone with a bottle of narcotics was the worst of it, and in the back of his mind, he knew. He knew what he was getting into when he had pocketed the bottle in his geriatric-chic slacks, flatly telling Daniel and Ofelia that the antibiotics were all he found on the beach only a few hours prior.

Nick could feel his throat start to dry, and the rumble of his stomach start up once more. He bit his lip and continued to shuffle the pills back into the prescription bottle of a now infected Rosa Gonzalez. _God, she probably died horribly_ , he thought, _she died so I can have this bottle. So I can find it and…_

The lid snapped onto the bottle, and the pills rattled inside of it, but he couldn’t finish his thought. He didn’t know if he should keep them, or pretend he had lost them in the shuffle on land, only to reappear after he had washed the blood off his body. He didn’t know what to do. Part of him thought he was finally making it. He was strong enough to put the pills away and ignore the thundering of his stomach, and the dryness of his mouth as it awaited for the smooth pill to slide down his throat. Another part of him thought he was weak. Weak enough to stand in his room, reading the bottle and doing the maths on how many he needed to actually take for a high, and contemplating if he wanted to do it.

But, the truth of the matter is, at nineteen, with the world turning into his darkest nightmare, and he was more at risk than everyone else. The drugs only prepared him for the unpredictable future that only became everyone's present.

They were worthless now.


End file.
